


Fantastic Beasts and Where (Unfortunately) to Find Them

by AStudyInAlgedonics



Series: Raccoon's Potterlock Verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Magical Creatures, Potterlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, adult potterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/pseuds/AStudyInAlgedonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gift for the Exchangelock AU Event, for they-call-me-mrs-cumberbatch! One of the available prompts was Potterlock, and I think we've well established by now how impossible it is for me to resist that. Mildly inspired by the upcoming Fantastic Beasts film (!!!). </p>
<p>Sherlock brings home magical creatures. John is not impressed. Sherlock is an idiot. John is still not impressed, but loves him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantastic Beasts and Where (Unfortunately) to Find Them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [they-call-me-mrs-cumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=they-call-me-mrs-cumberbatch).



> The first, but probably not the last, 221B-era fic I've written for this verse. Imagine how much worse a flatmate Sherlock is with magic and creatures. I'm sorry I can't resist vulnerable Sherlock. And Mary doesn't exist except as like a two-week footnote in their Hogwarts years after Sherlock left - perhaps a story that will be told in more detail, in time...
> 
> I own absolutely nothing! Don't sue me. I don't even have any money, the only thing I can give you are printouts of Sherlock meta AND NOBODY WANTS THAT BECAUSE I WILL DESCRIBE THEM ALL IN GREAT DEPTH AND ADD MORE COMMENTARY AS I HAND EACH ONE TO YOU.

In his time at Hogwarts, John had actively hated very few classes. How could he dislike any of them, when he’d come home every summer to see Da and Harry drink themselves into a stupor and, Harry especially (she’d always been incredibly jealous that he’d got Mum’s magic and she hadn’t) slung vicious insults every time he settled down to try and get some of his homework done? It struck him as faintly ungrateful to resent any of what he was getting, any of the fantastic madness that was life at Hogwarts – he’d never hated Peeves or the pranks that the Weasley twins had pulled in the Gryffindor common room, only laughed along with them. He’d never resented late-night Astronomy classes, instead marvelling at the beauty of the stars that magical equipment and lens-enhancement made possible. Even Divination – something he took no stock in – had been fun, with Sherlock whispering scathing comments about the subject and the professor and the other students under his breath and tricking people into thinking he was the star of the class with his amazing deductions.

Care of Magical Creatures had been the exception.

John was not a particular fan of animals; all right, dogs were sweet, but aside from that, he wasn’t terribly interested in even household pets. Cats liked to scratch and get their fur and scent all over things. Fish and turtles were rather dull. Magical things like fire crabs and Streelers were all the more alarming, even with Professor Kettleburn’s sharp eye and knack for emergency Stupefying Charms – and when he’d spent nearly every class session partnered up with Sherlock… well, John had wasted more than one afternoon in the infirmary when Sherlock had either gotten himself or John bit or poisoned or burnt “just to see what happened, really, John, it wasn’t about _hurting_ you”. That might have been the worst of it; Sherlock genuinely didn’t let any injury come to John out of something mundane like malice. It was pure curiosity, as likely to be inflicted on himself as his partner and then documented in one of the many notebooks floating around the lanky Ravenclaw’s dorm. How Sherlock could be so cold, John had no idea – but then again, before they’d got properly together, more than one of John’s other dates had been spoilt when Sherlock got hold of one of the Malaclaws and annoyed it into biting John. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as cold as John had always felt.

Still, he had been glad to get away from magical creatures when he’d left Hogwarts and gone into Muggle healing; once Sherlock’s family had decided to drag him away to France and Beauxbatons, the castle had lost quite a lot of its appeal. And Care of Magical Creatures was only good for reminding him of that empty space next to him. He’d done more good in the Muggle world, anyway, and it had repaid him with…well, a bullet scar and lasting nightmares along with the bad shoulder, but at least it had been easy to distract himself from wondering what Sherlock was doing at that moment.  Finding Sherlock again had been the best trick of fate John had ever seen, enough to make all of that injury convalescence worth it. Convincing him to resume where their previous relationship had left off was almost as impressive.

Unfortunately, the consulting detective still retained his ridiculous fondness of magical creatures. That, like the deductions and the biting brilliant sarcasm and that mop of curly hair - that had never changed. It was much less pleasant in the flat, though.

“Sherlock, what the hell is that?” he demanded through the door as he let himself in with a bag of groceries. The eerie, sad song had been audible from the ground floor, striking a deep chord of dark feelings in the pit of John’s stomach. Nothing Muggle sang like that. He stopped dead in his tracks when he entered the flat proper, staring at Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa as usual like a large lanky cat. That much was normal.

The tears running down Sherlock’s elegant cheekbones were not. Nor was the underfed-looking bird sitting on a stand a few metres away from the sofa. Its feathers were a mottled greenish-black; the throbbing, miserable song was pouring out of its beak.

“Augurey,” Sherlock sighed, his voice sounding shattered. “I was…it was an experiment on its feathers…” He trailed off, tilting his head to look at John. John just shook his head. Of course it had been.

“You daft idiot,” he muttered with fond exasperation. “This is London, Sherlock – there’s always rain coming.” He pulled out his wand and shot a quick Silencing Charm towards the creature, then crossed the room to kneel beside Sherlock’s sofa. Technically, Augureys’ songs had no real killing power; the superstitions were completely false there, with no grain of truth like some old clichés. For someone as sensitive to music and sound as Sherlock, though – for someone who danced so joyfully, with so much energy, and bent his entire soul into his playing, and got caught up more fully in opera or symphony than anything else John had ever seen, the way Sherlock did - their heartbroken cry was clearly enough to bring even Sherlock to sympathetic misery.

Gently, John pressed his lips to each of the tears streaking Sherlock’s face, wiping the rest of the moisture away with a finger once he’d pulled back. Then he started raining quick little kisses on his lips, winding a hand into that thick mop of curls and petting his head softly. When he finally shifted to place a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose, the man was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the edges in a way John had never been able to resist.

“I had hoped you’d do something like that,” Sherlock commented dryly, reaching up to caress the nape of John’s neck with his thumb. It took a minute for that quite to sink in.

“Hang on,” John said, pulling away. “Hoped?” He frowned, felt that was not quite severe enough, and turned it into a scowl. “Sherlock, was that…was that a bloody experiment on me?”

Sherlock at least had the good grace to look crestfallen. “One of the women’s magazines you’re always teasing me about,” he muttered, eyes shifting away. John turned his head, followed his gaze to the ripped-out glossy page lying on the coffee table behind them, and sighed internally. “There was something…talked about measuring your importance to your romantic other by how they reacted to your being upset.”

John snorted and pulled away. Of course. Sodding magazines, sodding bad relationship advice, sodding phrasing it as an irresistible experiment – he knew Sherlock got insecure sometimes, knew that sometimes in the midst of a black mood he’d start introspecting and decide that he wasn’t good enough for John or even good for him. The reasons he cited, John felt, were ridiculous – caused him danger (hadn’t they all pegged a while ago that John was addicted to danger); natural emotional distance (John was aware that that was how Sherlock was, thanks, he’d made his peace with it); saw no harm in mad experiments (and for fuck’s sake, if he was really upset with those, they’d have had it out years ago and stopped the practise entirely. Again, addicted to danger and Sherlock himself enough to be at peace with most of it).

“Sherlock, listen to me.” His voice was stern. “I’ve told you before – you’re enough, okay? This is fine, you can stop worrying I’m going to – to stop caring about you. For God’s sake.” He turned and grabbed the glossy paper and ripped it up, then crumpled it in his hand. “Lost you once already, you great berk,” he added, more roughly now. “I’m not going to take you for granted, ever. No matter what you’re like.”

Sherlock blinked up at him for a few minutes – an expression John was ruefully familiar with. The first time it had been a bit scary; these days he just waited for Sherlock to finish processing.

“John, I do love you.” Sherlock spoke it like a sigh of relief, even closing his eyes briefly. John rolled his own.

“I know. That’s what leads to things like today.” He bent down again and nuzzled his cheek into the curve of Sherlock’s neck.

“It was – I am sorry, John, it just…”

“Hush. You have some sort of pass for the Philharmonic, don’t you? I know the bigwigs owe you something.” John kissed his throat. “Let me take you out tonight and get that horrid song out your head, love.”

“…Okay.”


End file.
